The Hope Factory

by Lavanya Sankaran

  But things changed as her son grew older. He was in every way a beautifully blossoming little boy: noisy, curious, and his feet began to wander. He was still too young to understand that the large residence they lived in was not their home; he was not free to run about at will, touching the things that caught his fancy, reaching his hand up for the fruit that gleamed on the table; it was not there for him. And though Kamala furiously, desperately corrected and hushed him, it was not long before she was being gently asked whether she could not make some other arrangement for her son. Could he not stay with grandparents in the village? Her employers were not bad people; Kamala realized that she would face the same questions wherever she worked.

  It was time then to get a home of her own. But perhaps she was a very demanding type of person, for no matter how many places she saw, she could not be satisfied: a succession of single rooms, tiny and dingy from misuse—none of which she minded, for it was no more than she expected—but, all of them carrying with them the stench of other discomforts: potential landlords who inspected her body with disrespectful eyes; rooms that opened onto crowded, busy streets with doors that were lightweight and insecure, the surroundings so noisy that a voice raised in alarm would be swallowed up by the sounds of the street; or rooms that were so far removed from humanity that she could shout for help and go unheard. And so, like a nesting doe, Kamala had kept searching restlessly.

  She had known instantly that this room was made for her. She could see her future in it: the gate at the entrance to the courtyard would keep her doubly secure; the families who lived in the dwellings within would provide her with community and security; the landlord seemed like a respectable man, and he and his family would doubtless be there for advice and assistance should she ever choose to seek it. Quickly, before the landlord could change his mind or before someone else could leap in and grab the room, she paid the advance requested (not too high, because of the unseemly location so far from the city) and arranged to move in the very next day.

  If Kamala had had one wish, in those early years, it was for a shorter commute to her work, which still took her an hour and a half each day. But, perhaps because she accepted the routine without complaint, the gods took pity upon her and, with their palms raised in benediction and gentle smiles upon their faces, they addressed themselves to the blisters on her feet and moved the city closer.

  She had lived here for eight years.

  He would come, her brother, and he would not see the nest that had kept her safe and cherished all these years; he would notice the peeling paint on the walls and the small size of the room and disparage her and all that she held dear, for that was what he had always done—and why should the intervening years have changed his character?

  He was to attend the wedding of his wife’s connection, a cousin; Kamala wished that it was his wife attending instead of him. They, at least, had maintained a steady, affectionate communication over the years, with brief phone calls, first made from the STD phone booth at the corner and, later, from her newly acquired cellphone, which was cheaper.

  She wondered, all of a fidget, whether she should buy a can of paint and put Narayan to work. Should she buy new clothes for both of them? The relentless profusion of such thoughts eventually annoyed her. What nonsense, she thought. Why should she do any of these things? Let him come. Let him say what he will. Let him poke his nose in the air and click his tongue and shake his head and make his hurtful comments. Let him.

  Nevertheless, she found herself approaching the visit with an air of going into battle. Her brother would actually be spending less than a day with her: he would arrive on the night bus and proceed directly to the wedding location, finding his way to Kamala’s house only after the morning’s festivities and lunch were completed. He would eat his evening meal with them, spend the night, and be off the following morning on the seven-hour bus ride back home to the village.

  On the day of the visit, Narayan, noting the militant air with which she cooked the evening meal, opened his mouth and wisely shut it without comment, washing dishes and meekly changing into the shirt his mother gave him (his second best) and not arguing when she told him not to wander off with his friends but to stay put in the courtyard until his uncle should arrive.

  Her brother arrived in the early hours of Sunday afternoon in the smart polyester shirt and pants he had donned for the wedding, a slight smattering of gray in his hair the only visible marker of the years that had passed since their last meeting. His first comment was positive: he exclaimed over how tall Narayan had become: “Taller than me soon, I think.” He then looked Kamala up and down. “You look well,” he pronounced, as though making an important diagnosis. Kamala felt herself relax slightly. She showed him about her room and the courtyard; he made no comment.

  Her years in Bangalore had immeasurably changed her view of her brother; he was no longer the vicious, terrorizing force of her girlhood. He looked tired and uncertain, removed from the comfort of his village and quietened by the overwhelming rhythm and thrum of the big city. She set aside her fears of battle and engaged instead to look after her guest. He changed into a cotton shirt and lungi folded to his knees and accepted her offer of coffee.

  He had placed his formal wear in a large jute bag; from this he pulled out gifts from his wife: a blouse piece for Kamala and a plastic comb for Narayan. Kamala received the gifts with pleasure and felt relaxed enough to make a joke: “Perhaps now,” she said, “Narayan will actually comb his hair,” and was gratified to see her brother and son laugh along. She too had a gift to give: a box of North Indian–style sweets for him to take home; his wife would find them novel and enjoy sharing them with her children and neighbors.

  The evening passed swiftly enough on wheels of punctilious civility. Narayan, thankfully, talked sensibly with his uncle, recounting none of his wilder stories. Her brother spoke briefly of his wife’s uncertain health and of their three children; he told Kamala little pieces of village gossip; he praised the food she had cooked. She in turn felt a degree of charity toward him that she had little expected. Who knew her brother could be so harmless? If this was the character-altering game the gods were playing, then—who knew?—perhaps tomorrow she would go to work and find Shanta flinging her arms about her with a smile and Thangam beavering away and Vidya-ma dispensing loans cheerfully.

  Her brother seemed to be doing well; he talked about having purchased a share in a new village shop. “Soon, Sister,” he said, “I will bring my wife and children to visit you.”

  Kamala nodded, her words preempted by Narayan’s excited “I can show them around! Everything!”

  Despite the cordiality of their conversation, Kamala did not let her guard down. She told him briefly about her job, ready to deflect any question about her salary—but none came. Instead, her brother reserved his quizzing for Narayan. Here too Kamala refused to show weakness: Narayan, she told him, was doing well in school—and gods willing, would soon be shifting to a paid school with a fine future ahead of him.

  “These are good prospects. Work hard,” her brother said, nodding and addressing his nephew, “and do well.”

  The conversation slipped safely back to village news.

  THE LANDLORD’S MOTHER JOINED them as soon as their evening meal was done; Kamala was wryly surprised at how long the old lady had waited, exercising, no doubt, the utmost tact and patience. She, like the others who lived in the courtyard, was brimming with curiosity at this unprecedented visitor from Kamala’s family—hitherto missing in action. For Kamala, so free with news of her present, tended to be frugal when discussing her past.

  Kamala went to wash their dinner plates and throw away the little food that remained, for it would spoil overnight. She had overestimated the quantities they would eat, or, to be precise, she had not wanted to appear parsimonious. Squatting at the tap, she could hear the old lady questioning her brother like an unsparing schoolteacher.

  Kamala’s landlord was a simple man, fundamentally unsuited to th
e business of landlording, treating his tenants with a courtesy usually reserved for guests. He was unable to deny any request made to him, especially if it was phrased in polite terms and after due inquiries about his health and the well-being of his family. Since his wife suffered, like him, from an excess of sensibility, any difficult decision that needed to be conveyed to his tenants was delivered by his mother, who did not.

  The landlord’s mother was always ready to concede her son’s superior knowledge of the ways of the world and, certainly, his right to manage his own affairs. If she voiced her opinion in his hearing, it was only to provide him with an alternate point of view (humble and fault-ridden though it may be). And if by the magic of osmosis, her opinions somehow managed to become his, that was the will of the gods. It was a process she handled deftly, bringing to it an expertise garnered through years of managing the landlord’s late father; in short, the old lady was the unofficial regent of the courtyard.

  Please, she prayed, she is very important to me. Please let my brother not be provoked into being rude to her. I could not bear the shame. I could not repair the damage.

  Kamala had misplaced her worry.

  Her brother appeared keen to make a good impression. She returned with plates clean and dripping wet to hear him holding forth to an interested audience. The landlord’s mother had been joined within minutes by her daughter-in-law and by the young bride. “… many guntas of land,” he was saying. “Yes, we are lucky to be living so comfortably …

  “And yes, the shop is also doing well. The second one also.”

  In a frozen, startled silence, Kamala listened to descriptions of the acres of land her brother owned, his thriving shops. And then, not content with talking so freely about himself, he proceeded determinedly to establish the worth of Kamala’s late husband’s family as well: “… even more land,” he said. “Cows producing the finest milk. Very nice house.”

  Kamala saw the open mouths, the heated rise in speculation; even Narayan listening to this in astonishment. She had no idea how to stem the flow of her brother’s sudden loquacity. She could feel eyes sliding speculatively from him to her and back again. It was the bride, naturally presumptuous, who chose to ask the big unanswered question:

  “Aiyo, uncle,” she said, “if Kamala-aunty can stay like such a queen at home, why is she living and working like this?”

  “Hush, child,” said the landlord’s mother. “What a question to ask.”

  Her brother did not seem offended by the bride’s impertinence. “It is a good question,” he said, with a kindly solicitude that made Kamala want to bang her wet plates on his head, “but you good ladies know Kamala … she can be very obstinate. How many times we have all told her to come and live with us—but she will not listen.”

  “Yes, Kamala-aunty can be quite obstinate,” agreed the bride, with an unbecoming haste.

  “Amma”—her brother addressed the landlord’s mother—“it is good that you have looked after her so well; she is very lucky. But why should she clean houses here when she can live in comfort at home? Her husband’s family too would welcome her—our family is held in such respect in the village.”

  “We are happy to have her with us,” said the old lady, “and I thank you for your words. We have cherished her like a daughter. But she is luckier still to have a brother like you, of strong character and so caring. Lucky for her and so good for Narayan—he needs a man’s hand to control his mischief.”

  Narayan’s protest was quelled by his mother’s stern glare; she herself said nothing.

  Her brother, encouraged by the old lady’s words, caught Narayan by the ear and twisted it until the boy winced. “Mischief, is it?” he said, genially. “I see that next time, I shall have to bring my cane with me.”

  WHEN ALL WAS QUIET and everyone asleep, Kamala lay awake, irritated and baffled by her brother’s conduct, the careless stories that she could not, in good grace, contradict. In the space of half a day, he had spoiled her hard-won reputation of eight years. She could see it in the landlord’s mother’s eyes: from being regarded as a hardworking woman worthy of support and pity to being seen as a willful, obstinate fool.

  The landlord’s mother had been present when Kamala first met the landlord, and if Kamala had not realized, then, the significance of the little gray-haired woman in the corner with a grandchild on her lap, she soon did and never failed to pay her respects. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps the old woman just liked Kamala’s company, for though Kamala led a morally impeccable life (apart from an occasional loss of temper), she was not too proud to sit in the moonlight of an evening and engage in a gentle gossip about others, listening with pleasure and interested commentary. Whatever the reason, for a long time now, Kamala had been shielded from the old lady’s business instincts and from the knocks on doors, every now and then, around the courtyard, with requests for increased rent.

  But now, thanks to her brother, Kamala worried that her status as the old lady’s pet tenant might soon cease. The bride’s words of the previous week rang louder in the night. If the rent increased—biting into a larger chunk of her monthly income—how would she be able to save for Narayan’s schooling?

  thirteen

  THE CESSATION OF THE MACHINES signaled the end of the second shift on the factory floor, but the sounds of debate and disagreement swirled unabated around Anand’s office.

  “It is the correct thing,” said the HR man obstinately. “The workers are happy. It gives us a good reputation with the unions.”

  “It is too much,” said Ananthamurthy. “What is the need? Mrs. Padmavati, do you not agree with me? Such a big increment this time—they will expect the same next time. Too much! We cannot afford this.”

  “As to that,” said Mrs. Padmavati with her usual precision, “it is financially viable in the current scenario.”

  Anand listened and did not interrupt. He was quite clear in his own mind: the wage increase was a good thing, especially when the company stood on the verge of gaining international contracts. It represented a vote of confidence in the workers. If he’d had any doubt, the meeting with the union leader that morning had settled it. For the union leader—face beaming, brimming over with goodwill and fervent promises of continued keenness—it was a political coup; he could take personal credit for it. Anand had always tried to maintain good relations with the workers, but he could see, in the union leader’s pleasure, that their relationship had shifted to a new level of mutual commitment.

  The Japanese deal had moved ahead remarkably well. The short list had now narrowed to just two companies: theirs and one other from Delhi. That was it. He and Ananthamurthy had researched all they could about their competitors and cautiously come to the opinion that they did not have that much to fear. The Delhi company was owned by a prominent businessman with a flair for getting his name in the papers. That did not necessarily make them better. In fact, according to Ananthamurthy, who had methods of unearthing strange bits of gossip from unlikely sources, they were disliked by their suppliers for their delays in payment and their habit of rewarding themselves with expensive cars before paying anyone else. Surely the Japanese would be able to sense such bad practices? Surely the very rectitude of Cauvery Auto, with its quiet offices and efficient shop floor, would speak for them?

  Anand drove home, pondering if there was anything else they could do to tip things in their favor.

  “OH, THANK YOU SO MUCH. That’s lovely! Yes, see you tomorrow. Okay, then. Bye!” Vidya arrived home a few minutes after he did, her face still flushed and animated from her phone conversation, narrow, orange-rimmed dark glasses resting like a hair band on her head. She looked up at Anand, and the animation faded.

  There was no question about it. His wife was molting again. Shedding her old feathers and growing ones anew. He had seen this happen before—a vivid reengineering of her entire being after time spent on the drawing board and in vacuum-sealed laboratories, the birth of a new avatar complete with new dress, new hairst
yle, new speech, new concerns.

  It was usually triggered by her current friends and obsessions; over the years, Anand had witnessed the birth of the outdoorsy, sporty wife, who trekked determinedly in the nature she loved, eventually killed and re-interpreted as the Bollywood princess decked in long, salon-straightened hair and sequins, shaking her hips to persistent Hindi film music, who, in turn, gave way to the artsy interior-decorating aesthete who wore bright green glasses and patronized art shows and plays that questioned the meaning of life in modern India.

  It had never bothered him until now—now, it bothered him intensely. The previous week, she had returned home with a haircut. The hair that had swung down to her waist and been straightened religiously each week at the beauty parlor was cut short to her ears. He had gazed at her, startled.

  “Well?” she said, and there had been a challenge in the question.

  It’s different, he said. When he hastily added, “It’s nice,” she said with a particular satisfaction, “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  Now she was wearing a Fabindia kurta, the block-printed tunic reminding him, appallingly, of another woman: his wife had chosen, this time, to turn herself into a horrifying, inadequate facsimile of Kavika.

  He wanted to weep.

  THAT VIDYA WAS EXPERIENCING her own difficulties with this particular transmogrification was evident when she came to the study to discuss the annual Diwali party with him. This itself was unusual.

  She settled herself on the sofa, placing an ankle over her opposite knee, a masculine pose that he at once recognized as belonging to another woman.

  “I would so much prefer to keep the whole thing simple,” she said. “A return to simple values. A simple, quiet affair.”

  He refused to help her. “Why don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course…. The thing is, my father …”

  Anand knew precisely what the thing was. Harry Chinappa was not a subscriber to his daughter’s current transformation. Especially now, in the face of Diwali. Over the years, what had commenced as a gentle, mocking advisory to his daughter’s annual Diwali party, received by Vidya as a happy counterpoint to Anand’s own perennial indifference to such matters, had escalated into a complete takeover, with Harry Chinappa orchestrating both the party arrangements and the guest list, filling it, much to his daughter’s starstruck gratitude, with many of his own acquaintances. Anand, with a certain resignation, had confined his own involvement to matters of budget alone, a tail meekly attached to a kite as his wife swirled along on myriad social winds, the string that held her aloft amidst her buffeting firmly guided by the authoritarian hands of her father. The previous year, a hundred people had infested the house for the Diwali party; Anand had thought that about ninety people too many—a view apparently shared by no one else, least of all his wife, until a few days previously, when Kavika had leaned her elbows against the table in a restaurant and started talking animatedly about the Diwalis of her childhood.